this morning #2077.

this morning, i ran my favorite knife back & forth across the block until it was nice & sharp. carved up two apples & two pears lickety-split. tossed them into a bowl, added it to the tray & took it upstairs to her bedroom. two courtesy knocks. eased the door open with my backside & turned to her pale, half-awake face. smile & pain. as much “good morning” as she could muster up. “guess what? i made us breakfast.” slightly more smile. what currently passes as a laugh. “you always make us breakfast.” truth. had been for almost two months. fifty-six days to be exact. not whining. just stating a fact. fifty-six days in bed. the doctor said “she doesn’t have much time left.” such a strange way to phrase “she’s almost better.”